La Vendetta è un Veleno
by whaschmackity
Summary: In their latest case, Holmes and the faithful Dr. Watson come to the aid of two young socialites entangled in the schemes of the Italian nobility, a world twisted with lust, betrayal, and murder, a world where jewels beget grudges and revenge is a poison. indefinite hiatus
1. Capitolo Uno

Penelope nervously twisted the linen in her lap. The main course was being brought out, and Georgette had still not returned to the dinner table. Marchesa Russo had already glanced disapprovingly in her direction twice, noticing the prolonged absence of her young protégé. She whispered something to her companion, Lady Grey, who also turned to observe Georgette's empty seat. Penelope gave her what she hoped was an apologetic expression, but Lady Grey only smiled reassuringly. However, the Marchesa then directed her friend's attention to the also conspicuously unoccupied chair of Mr. Matthew Clarke, and Lady Grey's smile faltered slightly. Penelope felt herself go red.

Mercifully, Georgette returned just as they were being served. Her golden hair was slightly tousled, and her lips a little too red. This brought a fresh wave of embarrassment upon Penelope. Georgette was by no means disgraceful, but sometimes she tended to set propriety aside.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to Penelope. "I was –"

"Georgette, I think the entire table knows where you were. Could you not be more discreet? Where is Mr. Clarke?"

Georgette blushed. "As it happens, he was called home suddenly. I wasn't with him for long."

Penelope shook her head, but secretly she was relieved that Mr. Clarke wouldn't be making the same conspicuous return to the table. She opened her mouth to hastily lecture her friend, but before she could utter a word, there was a loud shriek from the opposite end of the table.

Marchesa Russo was slumped over her plate clutching her stomach and moaning incoherently. Lady Grey was frantically motioning towards the servants, Italian rapidly flowing out of her mouth. A few of the men were on their feet attempting to assess the situation, while there were sudden gasps from some of the women as they craned to get a better look.

One of the servants returned with water, and the others were calmly ushering the dinner guests from their seats and out into the hall. Georgette and Penelope tried to remain behind, but it was impossible to push against the now frantic crowd of guests. They heard Lady Grey shout for the Marchesa's doctor to be sent for, and then they found themselves out in the hall.

The men and servants were attempting to calm the ladies while ordering carriages and looking for cloaks. Women were fanning themselves, and one pale-faced lady fainted into her husband's arms. Penelope turned and helped the poor man get her to a chair, asking one of the servants to fetch smelling salts and a glass of water.

Georgette managed to find a seat as well, so she sat and watched as the hall became clear little by little. A few people stayed behind as well, but most men were in a hurry to get their wives home and away from the horror.

"What has happened to the Marchesa?" she asked a passing servant.

"I do not know, Miss King. A doctor has been sent for – here he is now. Excuse me." He hurried to let the doctor in, a thin older gentleman with a very stern expression.

The carriage for the man with the fainting wife arrived, and then it was only the two young ladies and three other gentlemen in the hallway.

"Pardon me," a servant said, "but would you care to wait in the sitting room?"

Penelope and Georgette sat in silence as the men poured themselves glasses of port. Their conversation was subdued.

A while later, the doctor entered the sitting room to announce the Marchesa's situation.

"Good evening," he said. "I am Dr. Pond. I am afraid Marchesa Russo's situation is very grave indeed."

"What happened, Doctor?" asked one of the gentlemen, Mr. Williams, who had been a life-long friend of Lady Grey's late husband.

"I cannot be entirely sure, but it seems as though she has been poisoned. She is very ill, and I do not think she will outlive the night."

Georgette gasped, and Penelope put her arm around her friend's shoulders.

"There is nothing that can be done?" asked a gentleman that neither of them knew.

"I am fairly certain she has been given a massive dose of arsenic, the symptoms such as they are, in which case the only things that can be done are to call a priest and Scotland Yard."

The doctor's abrupt manner was unsettling, and perhaps he realized this.

"Lady Grey and the Marchesa's maid are doing everything they can to make her comfortable, but it would not do well to give false hope. I have asked one of the servants to send for the police, and I must trouble you all to remains here as witnesses."

They all consented and assumed their previous positions. Dr. Pond poured himself a glass of port, but no conversation resumed.

A few minutes later there was a loud banging on the door, and a small group of policemen were shown into the sitting room.

"I'm Inspector Lestrade," the short one wearing a bowler hat announced. "Now, what exactly happened here?"


	2. Capitolo Due

Holmes did not appreciate being roused from deep sleep before eight o'clock in the morning, especially not by Watson. Mrs. Hudson, at the very least, would have brought tea. He emitted a few incoherent grumblings and rolled over. Watson poked him rather hard between his shoulder blades with what could only be his cane.

"Were you planning to rise before noon?" the good doctor asked.

"That's hardly of any importance _now_, is it?"

"Mrs. Hudson is bringing up tea soon."

Holmes sighed and sat up, reaching for his dressing gown. "Why the early return from your honeymoon, Watson? I didn't expect you back in London for another two weeks."

Watson rolled his eyes. "We're not early – we got back yesterday, the first week of August."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Oh. Is it really August? Dear oh dear, that summer heat must have been playing tricks on me. Well, where is the Mrs. Watson?"

"Sleeping, of course."

Holmes harrumphed, yawning and stretching. "And what brings _you_ here so early?"

"I have some paperwork I wanted to finish up at the surgery. I thought I'd say hello on my way there."

"Well," said Holmes, standing and padding into his study, "welcome back then, Watson." He collapsed into his chair. "Gladstone missed you."

The bulldog in question yawned widely on the rug before the hearth. Watson smiled and bent to pet the dog.

"There's a good boy, Gladstone."

There was a knock at the door to signal the entrance of Mrs. Hudson, armed with the tea tray. "It's nice to see you up with the sun, Mr. Holmes. I've brought your paper."

Holmes grunted his thanks and took the paper. Watson poured himself and his friend tea.

"Well, this is interesting," said Holmes as he reached for his teacup. "Marchesa Fausta Russo died last night. The doctor said it was arsenical poisoning, and the Yard's calling it murder."

"Yes, it was the first thing our housekeeper told me this morning. I wanted to ask what you made of it."

Holmes's eyebrows shot up again. "Ah, so now we hear the real reason for my newlywed friend's early morning visit." He stood up quickly and paced for a moment. "Well, Watson, there's not much I can say as yet. I must first dress." All sleepy grumpiness aside, he flew back into his bedchamber.

Watson shook his head and picked up the paper to read the article. Holmes reemerged a few minutes later, hair combed and neatly dressed, curiously in contrast with the severely untidy backdrop of his study. He had scarcely poured himself another cup of tea when Mrs. Hudson returned with breakfast for two.

"Ah, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I've already eaten," said Watson politely. "But could I trouble you for some coffee."

The housekeeper smiled warmly. "Of course, Doctor."

Holmes helped himself to eggs and ham as he pondered this latest happening. He expected he would hear from Lestrade soon. Chances were that some insignificant squabble had gotten out of hand, and the poisoner would be soon found. How easily petty disagreements ended violently. Still, he reached for his shelf of indices and extracted the 'R' file.

Mrs. Hudson brought in Watson's coffee. "Mr. Holmes, I know it's early, but there's a young woman downstairs who has asked to see you."

"Young woman?" asked Watson, intrigued.

Holmes sighed. "Your timing is most inconvenient, Mrs. Hudson. What on earth does she want at this hour?" He glanced at the mantle clock. It was five minutes 'til eight.

"She says she is urgently in need of your help, sir. And she is a lady, nothing improper or suspicious in her appearance," she added.

"Hmm… We shall soon see about that. Very well, Mrs. Hudson, send her up."

Watson hastily tidied what he could of the littered papers and chemical vials. Holmes took his pipe from the mantle and sucked on it a little. He wished he had smoked earlier.

A few moments later, Mrs. Hudson returned with the young woman in tow and showed her into the room.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said quickly. She left, closing the door to the study behind her.

"I'm Dr. John Watson," said the doctor. "And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Won't you please have a seat, Miss…?"

"Thank you, Doctor. My name is –"

"Please," said Holmes, holding up a hand. "If you'll allow me a moment of assessment…"

She seemed to understand his request and nodded. He took the seat opposite her and leaned forward slightly, making deductions almost more quickly than his intent eyes could spot the details.

She was beautiful, to be sure, with flawless alabaster skin, jet black hair, and eyes almost as dark. She maintained a calm composure, but he could sense she was suppressing probably annoyance, maybe anger, and most definitely fear. He stood after a few moments, smiling slightly.

"I have heard your father perform on several occasions, Miss Marshall, and I have the pleasure of saying he is one of the finest musicians I have had the good fortune to encounter."

Her eyes widened slightly, but she otherwise kept her composure. "You are correct, Mr. Holmes. My name is Penelope Marshall. May I ask how you –"

"To begin with, you are a musician yourself, are you not? Beyond the usual level of accomplishment of young ladies, I mean. Your fingertips are slightly flattened, and there is a certain brightness to your eyes that only music brings. You do, of course, play the pianoforte, but your father has also taught you to play another instrument – I thought at first perhaps the violin, but I think now that it is the flute."

"I play both, Mr. Holmes, though the flute better than the violin and neither so well as the pianoforte. Although I suppose it is fortunate that I so absolutely favor my father in appearance, or else I would merely be a nameless musician to you." Again her tone was calm, but he sensed also that she was challenging him.

Holmes rewarded her with a very slight upturning of the left corner of his mouth. "Indeed, your family resemblance is uncanny. And may I add, Miss Marshall, that you are an extremely accomplished young woman." He again took his seat. "But you did not come here so early to discuss the musical talents of your family with me. Indeed, you have already been to Scotland Yard this morning, but I gather that the police did not give you the answers you wanted, so instead you turned to me. Furthermore, you are closely acquainted to Lady Violetta Grey, the well-known friend of the late Marchesa Russo. You have been understandably frightened by her death, but something has happened to anger you. I think you wish to tell me about circumstances concerning the Marchesa's murder."

Before she could ask about his deductions, Watson broke in. "The residue of soil on your shoes and hem suggest you have been in Whitehall, presumably Scotland Yard."

"Yes, you are right. But the police have been far from helpful."

Holmes sighed. "As is often the case, I'm afraid. Apart from this shocking murder – as it is most certainly murder – what has happened to distress you?"

"My closest friend – indeed, she is as close as any sister – Miss Georgette King has been arrested as a suspect in the murder of Marchesa Russo. Far be it from me to normally question the police, but I must tell you, Mr. Holmes, that this is simply not true."

* * *

**A/N: **By the way, this is a collaboration story between myself (Ellen) and **SailingAwaySoftly** (Gabbi). We were so pleased with the success of _**Bittersweet Symphony **_and so blown away by the epic-ness of the new Sherlock Holmes movie that we decided to work on another story together! So we hope you enjoy what we've got so far. Also, we'd like to take this opportunity to plug _**Jack of Knives, Queen of Poison **_and its sequel, _**Hearts, Hope, and Diamonds**_**, **by **curlycue2102**. Reviews are _très beaucoup d'_**AWESOME**. Flames are used to roast marshmallows.

**UPDATE: **Sorry, guys, we got the title wrong at first. But we fixed it. "La vendetta è un veleno" translates to "revenge is a poison." Don't worry, it'll make sense later. Thanks goes out to **Linus**, who pointed out the error in the title.


End file.
